« Of the one who declares in a peremptory tone: "I think...", you can be certain 1. that he doesn't think, 2. that he claims a judgment of his own when he expresses the most common opinion which he echoes without his knowledge, 3. that he is so unsuring of his existence that he puts forward Me and, for good measure, accoles him to I. There is no more boastful, more inconsistent and more conformist than this man. »

« The psychoanalyst is on the lookout for traces. No, not on the lookout, he does not watch them like the hunter, first because, if he hunts, it is in the dark, and especially because these traces, he discovers them where neither he nor his patient were waiting for them. He has little confidence in the memories told, evoked, as they are transformed, distorted as is any narrative. As proof, they give rise to different versions like so many translations. Freud even goes so far as to write in his text about screen memories that there are no childhood memories, but only childhood memories. This statement hurts us, as we cherish them, our memories of that time; whether they are happy or unhappy, whether they bear witness to our exploits or our shames, we believe hard to their truth. Well, no, they're fiction. Fictions like autobiography, our confessions, always more or less complacent, like our so-called intimate newspapers that do not ignore self-censorship. Fiction, what we believe to be our memory. »

« There are many nights when we dream of our dead. Are we the ones who invite them, these nocturnal visitors, rendered by the vision of the dream often more present, closer than they have ever been? Or do they come as intruders to annoy us to tell us the order not to let them fall into oblivion, to forbid us to believe them now locked in the silence of their graves? As accusers, they would only go to us to reproach us for having unloved, mistreated, to the point of abandoning them to death, we survivors, infidels and even to the point of making them die, we criminals. »